BBCSH 'A Day In the Life'
by tigersilver
Summary: Resurrections, live male porn, shameless bribery and the breaking up of weddings: all just a day in the life. Anthea-POV. Rather cracky.


BBCSH 'A Day In the Life'

Author: tigersilver

Rating: R

WC: 4500

Summary: Resurrections, live male porn, shameless bribery and the breaking up of weddings: all just a day in the life. Anthea-POV. Rather cracky.

"_I_ do! I object! _No_, John. Cease this infernal nonsense!"

The man who shouts those words is taller than most and in his mid-thirties despite the grey-dyed hair and the pancake makeup drawing lines on his sharp-cut face. He's a bit of arse and he's slicked his customary curls down in an effort to blend. Has discarded his battered felt slouchy hat, flinging it carelessly over the sea of gawping guests. Death Frisbee, likely. That mangy old thing's probably crawling with vermin if it came from whence I believe it must have: London's homeless.

This bloke's been sitting unobtrusively in a rear pew, hunched over a cane like the elderly man he was aping all this while, but now he's rocking high up on his toes and waving his arms about like a right nutter, storming down the aisle. From the way the cane clatters off, any fool can instantly spot he's not at all elderly nor feeble.

His shout, however, seems to have completely enfeebled both the bridal party and the remainder of guests, save two of us.

"Can't you simply _see _she doesn't love you, John?" The shouting man is hissing now, stalking up the bunting-decorated walk as if he's minor royalty. He halts just before the altar and jabs a finger at Miss Mary Morstan, nurse and still-spinster, and sneers, "Look at her, she's a ring on a chain round her neck—there, you can see the lump under the lace fichu. Clearly she's pining for someone, someone out of her reach right now, perhaps, maybe dead, maybe captured, what's it matter, and she's not truly committed to _you_, John, not in the way you deserve, if it's marriage you're seeking. Oh, no. She wants a child more than anything and you're only a friend to her, John, a means to an end biologically and that's all you are, sod it! This is beyond ridiculous, it's crap and bosh and shit! Wrong!"

John's eyes roll back in his head, poor chap. Fortunately Sir has risen also and has given the signal. Watson recovers enough composure to remain standing, albeit in a sea-sick fashion.

There's a general '_le gasp'_ sort of hush rippling through the natty crowd crammed into this tiny chapel. The officiating minister's gone terribly ruddy; I believe he might suffer from the gout. I _don't_ believe he honestly expected anyone to actually answer his required question: 'Is there anyone present who objects to this marriage?' Clearly he wasn't expecting Sherlock. No one does, more fool them.

"And you, John, look at you!" Sherlock Holmes, because of course it's him, back from the dead, and I'm honestly amazed he's stayed away this long, given John's banns were read weeks ago, has spun on his heels to confront the groom. He looms forward, practically falling up the three shallow steps in his eagerness to poke his interfering nose into John's wan face. "You're pathetic. Not sleeping, not eating, working yourself to bone and rag at that shabby excuse for a clinical facility—as if the pittance you earn there will ever make the slightest dent in all this chit's encouraged you to spend on this bloody wedding tosh and that silly rose-covered cottage she's pining over. And a baby! Have you any idea how dear infants are to keep? Good god, John, you'll be skint in no time! You simply cannot afford her!" He glares round the sacred space for a moment, lip curling dismissively. "Or this! This rot!"

John's jaw drops. The Morstan woman sways on her white satin heels.

Dr. Sarah Whosis, seated in the audience on the groom's side as a friendly ex and no longer of any real significance, politically or romantically, snorts her annoyance very loudly. It's her clinical facility Sherlock's just panned as low-paying and inadequate. Poor girl; that'll set a person back on her faux Prada heels. I feel for her, really I do. Momentarily.

Sherlock's shouting, "Rot, bosh, WRONG!" at the assemblement of well-dressed wedding-goers. Poor John. Looks as if he doesn't know what's hit him.

"Just see those profound bags under your eyes, John, and your hand; it's shaking!" the obnoxious genius carries on, back to pushing himself into John Watson's personal space without losing a beat. Honestly! No shame at all, this one. "I saw you stumbling as you processed up this blowsy excuse for a decent red carpet—bargain basement stuff; likely the parish funds were embezzled if that's all they got out to show from the deal—and you! Your limp! Can't hide_ that_ from me, John, for fuck's sake. I know that bad leg of yours is purely psychosomatic!. And now engaged in this farce of a marital ceremony, when _you_, John, still show every signs of being foundered by some earlier sort of devastating major emotional cock-up. What was it, John? Which one did you in? Who's the useless baggage _this time_, Doctor? Why, you can't possibly not be recovered from that pointless twit Jeanette? Oh. She was ages ago, yes—sorry! No matter, though; not important who it was who hurt you. It's more you're compromised emotionally, John; you can't commit! What _are_ you thinking, John, marrying some poor fool woman _now_—_are_ you thinking? Obviously not!"

The organist has a nice faint at her bench, slumping and tumbling peacefully to the pitiful carpet. Mrs Hudson, of Baker Street, landlady by trade, squeaks somewhat cheerily and claps a hand over her mouth instantly after breathing 'Oh, Sherlock!' Other than that, there's dead silence in the church on the echo of 'Not!'

It's a rather pretty little church situated on the upper end of Sussex and hullo, yes, pardon me for not mentioning earlier, my name is…Anthea. Just… Chief and I were invited to this matrimonial event out of sheer bloody-minded politeness on Doctor Watson's part, I daresay. I don't believe John thought we'd really show our faces. But we have and, as my boss says, best to be prepared for any instance. In fact, I can hear the requisitioned cars outside already, spreading scree randomly across the neatly mown lawn as they pull up to a fast halt, all three of them. Sir glances over at me and taps his earbud significantly, cocking a brow toward his irritatingly noisy sibling. I grimace under the brim of my picture hat. He's fallen to my lot then, the really difficult bugger—and the shell-shocked groom-in-waiting. Such is life of the PA; all the filthiest jobs are always ours.

"Stand down, John," the younger Holmes orders his old—his only-friend bluntly. "This bint's not for you. She's nowhere near interesting enough; you'll be bored stiff in a matter of hours! Minutes, even! _Stand down_."

"Right," I say quietly, rising swiftly on my apricot-coloured heels, casting aside my psalm book and making my way forward with a swish of peach silk sheath. "Yes, sir, right away."

It's the matter of seconds to insert myself between the two men on the steps of the font.

"Come away now." I catch both the younger Holmes brother's arm and John's heavily perspiring free hand, planting myself firmly between them to do it. "This way, please. Pardon us." The minister and John's best man—Dr. Stamford, was it?—fall back a pace, making way. John gasps and gasps again, his lower jaw settling somewhere down on his stickpin; looks as if he might keel any second, poor thing, so I tighten my grip on his sweaty fingers. Dear soul's not managed a single solitary word of the Queen's English, all this time, only gaped like a haddock at his old flat mate and gone dead waxen. And, yes, the always annoying Holmes brother is correct: he's favouring the one leg as he gimps at my side. I'd noticed it first as he'd walked up the aisle to his interrupted matrimony. "You two, come with me. Now. There's a car waiting."

"Wha-?"

They stumble after me and for once I've satisfaction of silencing the younger Holmes completely. It's the best moment so far, in this day. He glares daggers across the room at his brother for the tick of two seconds before opening those full lips of his again, instantly roaring off into a rant about 'interfering brothers' and 'do no treat me as a child; I can manage, Mycroft!' . Poor John just makes a pathetic little sound, mewping.

Really, someone should've disciplined Sir's younger brother far more sternly as a child. He is _most _tiresome.

From the corner of my eye I see that my boss has taken the trembling bride in hand and is capably whisking her away through a side door, her hysterically sobbing mother trailing after and clutching a useless scrap of lace to her running nose. He tips me a wink as he goes. The saloon car, then, for me and my two gents, as it's roomier. I march back down the aisle with them in tow and note that Sir's crack PR team has already entered and are quietly and efficiently taking care of herding the murmuring, muttering mob of guests to the venue Sir has chosen to dispatch them. Likely the catered reception, over the local B&B. No sense in all that bespoke food and drink going to waste, yes?

"Stop dragging me, damn you." That's the little brother, fussing in my ear. "Leave go!"

"No, wait! What's all this?' John finally gathers his stunned wits together to stall out on the lintel step, which is a nice wide grey stone one with plenty of room for the two of them to stand and stare at one another over my head. "Sh-Sherlock?" He drops the dove-grey morning gloves he's been clutching in one hand like a lifeline and attempts to reach past me to grab at Idiot Little Brother. I step adroitly backwards and reaffirm my grip on the two of them. "_Sherlock_! Sherlock, you can't be—I buried you! I visit your gravesite every bloody Sunday, me and Mrs Hudson. There's no possible way this can." He swings about to stare at me, wild-eyed, but doesn't think to pull away. "This can. This _can't,_ no, it can't be. It's not happening. Anthea—or _not_ Anthea, sorry—_Anthea_! Tell me I'm bloody fucking _dreaming_! He's dead!"

"Oh, for pity's sake," Sherlock grumbles at my other side, tugging fitfully at the death hold I've got on his sleeve. "Of course I'm alive, John; I was never not alive! Get a grip, man!"

"Right this way, chaps, off you go now," I intervene, enunciating with volume in order to be heard above their inanely contradictory babble, and proceed to drag them both off the ancient entry stone and across the driveway via a sort of pinch-driven frogmarch. I may or may not twist Sherlock's wrist a bit when I shove him and I may or may not dig a nail into poor dear John's palm. "Pop in the car now; good lads."

Parkins has the car's passenger door gaping wide right on schedule. I stuff John in right on Sherlock's heels, Parkins slams the door and I slip 'round the car to enter on the other side, where Samuels is waiting on me. Guarding the exit, rather, so neither of the two silly twats I've been landed with dares bolt. The locks snick shut with a little whoosh-thump and all three of us lounge back in a small, awkward silence, facing one another across the console table disguising the mini-bar. My earbud crackles a quiet warning in my ear. Sir has secured the bride and she's ensconced in one of the other cars, already on her way in a differing direction, I should think, but certainly not to end up in the near vicinity of her ex-intended. Or Sherlock. My boss is really quite efficient when it comes to the details.

Miss Morstan will likely find herself reunited with her POW'd RAF pilot before the day is through. Yes, miracles do happen. It's my business to make them so, thanks. 'Basingstoke', don't you know?

Right at the moment, though, it's my gentlemen's turn to sort out the mess they've made of their lives. I settle back to observe this, awaiting orders from on high.

"John." Sherlock's subdued and fidgety as the car growls into life, eases into a turn and roars down the pebbled lane. He should ought to be; he's just utterly ruined his best mate's wedding. "John, you must _listen_."

"I—don't. _Don't_, Sherlock."

Poor dear John Watson; really, I do like the man, am very fond of him. The Boss is as well, and that's always been a bit of a corker, right there. Boss is hardly ever sentimental. But then, too, it's a unique sort of bloke who can cope with my chief's little brother for any length of time and remain even mildly sane and on the level end, much less demonstrate a sense of fatalistic good humour and a great lot of misguided loyalty, so I suppose it's to be expected we all find him oddly engaging, John. A very decent chap and not bad-looking either, specially togged out in his for-hire bib and tucker. Not that I'd date the man, as I don't date, ever, but I was rather flattered he'd asked me.

John is positively furious in the face of Sherlock's pre-rant hand-waving. He's sputtering.

"John, John, John," Sherlock opens his mouth and out comes a stream-of-consciousness verbiage. I suppose that's what you'd call it, the flood of 'what John _must_ listen to'. I am hard to put to make any sense of it but John's all waggling eyebrows, open mouth and hugely widened eyes as he stares at Zombie Sherlock, who is talking up a storm and carrying on as though his life depends on it. Oh, excuse me—the newly risen Consulting Saviour, isn't it?

Actually, dear John is eyeing Sherlock much as if he'd just climbed down at Calvary, bloody-handed. I manage not to giggle at the fancy, as it would be rude of me to interrupt them. Reminds me of a Noh play, all masques of horror and astonishment and so forth, and a great deal of rubber-necking and gesturing on Holmes' part.

"John, you can't do it; can't you see you can't do it? It's the worst thing ever you could contemplate! I had to say something, had to stop it. You understand, right? Of course you do! The facts, John—look at them! She's only in for the sake of being _married_, she doesn't care who it is, because the chap she loved really is dead or near enough, and her heart with it, and that's not what _you_ deserve, John, not at all. No, far from it. You deserve to have someone—a, a_ person_—who cares for_ John_, who _knows_ John, and knows what _you_ like, what you need, not some brainless little sad bitch up from Brixton! An exciting person, John, that's what you require. Someone with real grey matter in their cranium instead of mere stuffed-in candyfloss and utter feminine nonsense concerning weddings and babies—picket fences, John? Who needs that, I ask you? No! Someone you can rely on, at least, who'll look out for you and have your back. A friend—maybe a friend, John. But _not_ that bloody Mary—she's all about _nothing_, John. I don't care if she's mammary glands the size of emergency inflatables, it's not your cuppa, trust me on that. You'll be divorced in a year, maybe less, and then where will you be, John? Support payments eked out of a military pension and locum hours? I don't think so! How will you even _live_, John? I don't see it!"

"You're dead." Little did I suspect Sherlock has Lochinvar tendencies and John, my dear, I have to say you're sorely lagging the pack in comprehension. I smother a tiny laugh behind my lace-covered wrist and listen intently to my boss, who has just made a significant monetary offer to Miss Morstan, with the purpose of 'disappearing' her from Sherlock's doctor's life quietly. I await the inevitable result as John sets his back teeth and flexes his jaw at Sherlock in a prissy manner. He grits out, "You. Are. _Dead_. Sherlock. What the—what in the blooming hell are you doing here?"

"Oh! For crying out loud, John! Keep. The. Fuck. UP!"

Sherlock has completely forgotten my presence; I may as well not be in the car at all for all he minds. He waves his arms again, huffing wildly and rolling his eyes like a mad beast on the Moors, and scoots his narrow arse across the bench seat where the two of them have ended up, shedding his dusty old tweed jacket as he throws his body sideways and across. No, it's more like he prowls across the little gap between them, clambering up and over, and he ends with his arse practically in John's lap, facing him catty-corner. John's mouth works but nothing useful leaves it. He blinks an awful lot, too. I fear for his eyelashes; he'll be ripping them out at that rate of speed. The younger Holmes, with a fine disregard for the mental hygiene of his audience—me—shoves his pink tongue between poor startled John's parted lips and crushes him down bodily, nicely tailored vest and all, into the leather-shod cushions. _Passionately_.

I also find myself blinking a bit too rapidly for comfort.

John groans. Sherlock moans, slurping. I twitch. This is…awkward. Er, very. I can hardly hear my boss soothing Miss Morstan into compliance over the maniac male rutting exercise taking place between the two of them.

"Oh! Oh, Sherlock…." John digs both his hands into the grey curls and hangs on as Sherlock bears him down to nearly horizontal. He is gripped in return, at the waist and the nape, by very long narrow bony fingers and it looks that parts of John may bruise later, Sherlock's so very pointy. The man's lost a fair stone; I notice this as he writhes over John, immobilizing him. "Sherlock, wha-?"

"You aren't _hers_—you'll never be _hers_, John," the Young Master exclaims, peppering the pink-faced perplexed ex-grooms' features with dainty kisses. "You'll never be anyone's but _mine_, John; I tell you that right this moment and I mean it, believe me." Sherlock's very matter-of-fact about these wild claims he's making at his pet doctor. It's rather impressive, the amount of sheer conviction his voice carries. "I won't allow this sort of idiocy, John, not for your part; I won't have it, not from you—never again! You should know better by now! There is no one else for me—there can't be! Now-_stop thinking_!"

"Sher-!"

My earbud crackles a bit, alarmingly; I look up from my mobile, where I'd taken mental refuge from the nascent sex scene in process opposite me. Also, I do have valid work awaiting me, of course, back at the office. The business with the Canadians and the Pakistani trade minister won't keep for much longer.

"Shhh!" I have to hush them, as they are very noisy. And most athletic; at least Sherlock is. He's stripped John of his upper suiting and is working on the man's trouser's flies with a fine determination. Half the teeth have been slipped their fetters and one of John's polished shoes dangles. "I can't hear what Mr. Holmes is saying, you lot. Do keep still for moment, will you?"

"Erm—ahem?" John rips his lips off Sherlock's and turns to me, blinking fast. "Pardon?"

Apparently he's forgotten me, too. I sniff. No shock there, really.

"**Whaaat**, you idiotic girl?" Sherlock demands of me as he flings about in a temper, scowling black as ever was. "Why are you even still here, damn it? Go away! Exit the car!"

"Hush," I reprimand. "I cannot yet, as you should know, Mr. Holmes. Your brother is awaiting Miss Morstan's agreement."

"Her—" John gulps. "Her _agreement_? Her agreement to what, may I ask?" He is back to shock state again right smart and I fiercely quell the urge to hand him over the blanket kept stashed in the car for such emergencies.

"To off out, of course," Sherlock spits, his face a mask of triumphant irritable pique. "Take the money and scarper, you idiot. What else, John? Mycroft's probably brought her old fiancé back from the dead—_and_ has a made her an offer she can't very well afford to refuse. But that's not the issue here. The issue **is**—"

"The issue is," John states very clearly, dragging himself out from under Sherlock's sprawl and managing to sit upright. "The issue is that you've come along and ruined my wedding, Sherlock, **my** wedding, and you're not dead, not at all, and why did you **not** _tell me_?"

Sherlock erupts into a quite lengthy explanation. _Again_. How boring. I tune them out and twist to knock up Parkins, the driver.

"Destination?" I ask of him via the intercom. "ETA? Anything? Because I'd like to wrap this up. Soonest."

"Yes, ma'am," Parkins nods and Samuals nods along eagerly. I catch his grimace out of the corner of my eye. They been watching the rear-view mirror, I'd imagine, and garnered a bloody eyeful along the way. The two men across from me have descended back into a welter of limbs and lips and babbling mutter once more and—yes. Actually, John _does _seem to be quite receptive to Holmes' advances this time. Not that he wasn't a bit more than gung-ho before. "Sir says we're to deliver them at Royal Tunbridge and continue on, ma'am."

"Very good." Shouldn't be too much longer, then; we've travelling at a fast clip. Right on queue I hear Chief in my ear.

"She's accepted. Mischief managed." Sir is smiling; I can tell just from his voice. "My dear, would you care to transfer to my car, instead? I daresay the two idio—er, my brother and Dr. Watson can manage now. And I shouldn't leave them entirely without transport. It wouldn't be kind."

"Please," I reply swiftly and ever so thankfully. John's trousers are discarded completely as are Sherlock's. My eyes are confronted by two sets of pants, tented at the groin area and with bits of excited flesh showing through the slits in the fabric. There is a distinct odour of musk assaulting my nostrils, quite overpowering the light floral cologne I applied this morning. Please be aware I did not accept this position to be subject to the courting behavior of two fool s in love, ta ever so much. Also, my own knickers are a bit damp what with rising humidity in the air and I have work waiting me and must needs be able to concentrate. "Please," I repeat, employing the brim of my hat to provide a visual screen for the shameless lack of modesty and usual British stiff-upper-lip decorum flagrantly unfolding not two feet from my demurely crossed ankles. "_Please_, sir; that _will_ be grand. I'll advise Dr. Watson he's a free man, then?"

"Please!" John moans and Sherlock echoes him.

"Please, please, please, John—I want you, _so much_."

"John," I announce, not that he's listening, the dear man. "John, as of this moment you are a free man. Miss Morstan has renounced her plans for marriage, to you at least."

"Oh—thank—fuck!" John moans. Good. He is more on the ball than I gave him credit for. A very noticing fellow, Dr Watson is.

"Please," my boss says, and clears his throat. "Er. And thank you, m'dear, for a job well done. Carry on, then. We'll converge in two minutes, approximately. I happen to have the files with me for the Beijing Incident, if we can turn our attention to that?"

"Oh—fuck—**yes**!" Really, it's not normal, how they go at one another. One would think the two of them were starving or something. Of course, eighteen months is a very long time to go without. "Sherlock!"

"I have you, John—_I have you_!"

"Oh! Yes—yes, you have, plea—fuck, **Sherlock**!"

"Ahem," the senior Holmes is making inquisitive noises in my ear. "Beijing _is _agreeable, my dear? Or did you wish to concentrate on assimilating the Moran evidence now we have hold of it? NSY grows impatient, sadly."

"Oh, yes, _please_," I say to my boss, rather fervently, over the clamour of two men readying themselves for a good rogering. "Beijing, sir. Moran can wait. And sod NSY, sir. They can wait too, nasty buggers." Finally! I've been wanting to wrap that situation up for ages, that pesky horrid Incident in Asia. Rogue agents are always so much bother to clean up after. As are, may I just mention for my own edification, rogue detectives. Even the Great Consulting sort. The interior of the car will require cleaning, I'm sure. They've gone and smeared the leather. "Thank you, sir. Much preferable to sort the Lotus out now than later."

"Right, exactly. Very good. Rendezvous soon, in two."

"Yes, sir. I'll be ready."

Two minutes is a very long time to wait, actually. I only wish I'd chosen the other hat I'd fancied, the one with the longer veil and much wider brim, as my poor eyes are burning. I did _not_ need to know that the younger Holmes was that fit, nor that John's bad leg really is entirely psychosomatic. No, I did not.

However, some people do pay for this sort of carnal footage, so I suppose I may count myself fortunate it's entirely free-of-charge for my later viewing pleasure. That is, after Beijing and the Canadians are dealt with. I'm just at the point of saving the video I've recorded to my mobile when the car pulls up in a lay-by.

"Brilliant," I sing out, as Samuels opens my door. "Carry on, lads—do. Make Sir proud, please. He's gone to a great deal of trouble for you both."

There's a laughing, gasping snuffle, which I am fairly certain is John, as Young Master is scowling up at me, wild-eyed, mid-thrust.

As for me, I simply cannot exit the vehicle soon enough. The last sight I have of them is of really more of Sherlock, bollocks deep in a pink-cheeked Dr. Watson and moving fast. Also, an unused, brand new golden wedding ring follows me out the door, flung with brutal force. So much so it pings harmlessly off the macadam and goes bounding into the gorses and weeds at the verge of the road, ne'er to be seen again. I am pleased to note that Chief's little brother is still sufficiently aware of his trajectory courses so as not to take out Samuel's eye in passing.

"Good bye and good fucking riddance, _not_-Anthea!' I hear the Consulting Saviour yelp breathlessly as he goes at it with a will. "Oh, shit—**John**! John, you're so tight….ah!"

"Good luck, John," I tell the car and its occupants from the vantage point of being outside it. I nod pleasantly at a wan, po-faced Samuels and go my merry way, off to my customary place at the Chief's elbow. "And same to you, Consulting Nuisance."

Despite myself, I am really quite pleased. It's been a productive morning.

Life of a PA, it is. Weddings, live porn shows, resurrecting the dead. All in a day's work, don't you know?

Fin


End file.
